Nothing happens accidentally
by MinionMooskateerAckleholic
Summary: What happens when Sherlock decides to 'accidentally' destroy hos bed...therefore being forced to share with John..


"No, Sherlock!" Mrs Hudson said, trying to sound firm, "You most certainly cannot keep that _thing _in MY fringe!"

"Oh, come now, Mrs Hudson, it's just for a few days! Anyway, I put in a plastic bag, just for you, not like the one upstairs." Sherlock strode passed her into her kitchen an carefully slid the severed head in between the leftover Christmas turkey and the lemon tart Mrs Hudson had made for the ladies at her bridge club.

"Sherlock! I said NO! Take it out, there is food in there!" Mrs Hudson was close to tears; she put up with a lot from the boys, but this was almost a step to far. "What's wrong with your fridge, Sherlock?"

"John gets uncomfortable when there is more than one identifiable piece of anatomy in our apartment at one time."

"NO I DON'T!" Came the frustrated yell from the stairs and Sherlock tilted his head upwards to call through the ceiling.

"You sit in your chair and glance periodically at the mirror over the fire, through with I know you can see at least the corner of the refrigerator, when I perform any experiment involving large human remains you either leave with no pretext, or you state that you 'have a date'. I bring home the materials on Wednesday nights; you avoid the refrigerator on Thursdays and stay out of the kitchen completely until Sunday evening when I return the remains to the morgue. Also, after Lastrade found the toes on the microwave, you gave it a week and bought a new one. You thought I didn't notice, because it was the same make and model. But the new one is second hand and by the wearing on the numbers, the chip in the turn-plate, and the scratch along the left side, I would say that it was owned by a university student, probably male in his late twenties, who could only afford microwave meals and preferred those that took least than ten minutes. Clearly he has finished university now and has sold his old microwave, along with most of his other furniture in an attempt to buy a flat that doesn't overlook the Brixton cemetery. All evidence, my dear Watson, points to the inescapable fact that you are uncomfortable around my experiments."

"Sherlock, I am a retired army doctor!" John said firmly as he came down the stairs and stood in Mrs Hudson's doorway, "Dead bodies and parts of dead bodies do not disturb me! I just don't think it's sanitary or…ethical."

"John is right, Sherlock!" Mrs Hudson agreed, looking disapprovingly at Sherlock. She had never approved of Sherlock keeping human remains in the apartment. "It's very unclean."

"Nonsense!" Sherlock said, opening the fridge and repositioning the head so it faced the front, "I would never bring home diseased cadavers, I only utilise the healthy ones." With that Sherlock strode past John and back up the stairs. Moments later the lilting sound of the violin drifted down, making John roll his eyes and Mrs Hudson shake her head, before she put that kettle on.

„He will never learn," Mr Hudson said resignedly to John and he nodded in silent agreement, as he got the mugs down and set the tea tray out on the table.

"Sherlock believes he already knows everything and so therefore he cannot learn anything new." John said, "It is true, he will never learn to respect other peoples wishes, unless he agrees with them. But it's okay, Mrs Hudson, I will call Molly and perhaps she can pick up the parts before lunch, Sherlock will be 'ticked-off', but you shouldn't have to deal with his bollocks."

"Thank you, dear!" Said the elderly landlady, looking relieved, "But, I must say you too have been at each other's throats an awful lot more than usual lately! Is everything okay?"

John coloured and said, rather too quickly, "Yes! Yes, everything's fine!"

Mrs Hudson, thankfully ignored John's flustered answer and busied herself some more, stacking dishes wiping down the bench top. Not that she would have gotten anything out of John if she had tried. There was no way in a billion years John would be saying diddly-squat about how he and Sherlock had had to sleep in the same bed, because Sherlock's had collapsed…

No way he was ever speaking a word of how little he had slept that night. Or how good it had felt when Sherlock had rolled over slightly, so his arm draped over John's arm. Or how he had found clear sign of someone forcefully pulling the legs of Sherlock's bed apart to force it to drop to the floor.

Nope. There was no way in Hell, John would ever breath a single syllable.


End file.
